For a month, I’ve had a plant swap scheduled at the library.
For four weeks, I’ve badgered garden club members with oh-so-important reminders: plant swap!; Saturday — this Saturday! 9am sharp! not a single moment later than 9 in the morning of the Saturday of this very week! — bring plants, bulbs, seeds, anything that will grow; bring fungus, I don’t care, just bring something to trade for other greenish tinted things that other grow-minded people wish to share. I might have even thrown an, “I’m not kidding, people!” in one of those emails, just to let them know: Hey, there’s a swap, and you’re gonna be there, and you’re gonna have stuff, and it’s gonna be fun!
And this last week, I made final preparations: seasonal handouts of information pertinent to our growing zone as well as season; memos about upcoming seminars/classes/sales; lists of reminders: next month’s meeting, a where and a when. I was ready!
Friday I spent the afternoon arranging tables, shuffling papers, moving things from left to right; lengthy preparations for the next morning’s early arrival/prompt meeting time.
Friday night, well after the sun has set, leaving the prairie in the black; long day; about to head to bed, and what should I hear? A tiny, wee, little (yes, I see the redundancy, but this sound was that of a Disney creature, it was so microscopic, made even more annoying by its “cuteness” factor) voice rings in my head: THERE’S A PLANT SWAP TOMORROW AND I HAVE NOTHING TO SWAP!
Adrenaline takes over and I shuffle into my slippers, gather my shovel (located handily outside my front door, for those of you curious as to where I keep my gardening/potential burglar repellent supplies, for just such an emergency; fortunately I know it is there; otherwise I would have tripped over it) and beeline for the front flower bed where I’ve been growing items — nurturing them, really — for just this very opportunity: swappage.
It’s a word.
I near the general area of flowers and I dig up lilies like they’re on fire and one second more aflame will ignite a bomb beneath the roots of those bulbs.
Handfuls of sedum, the world’s easiest plant to propogate, practically pull themselves out of their comfortable pot-o-dirt and fly across the darkened sidewalk into the vicinity of a waiting tray readied for travel to the swap meet. (Next morning, I discover in my flight from the house that indeed, not all of the sedum was as self-propelled as I had hoped. One quick scoot with my sneaker, though, returned them to their bed to grow another day.)
And as I’m shoveling the last bit of earth from around yet another clump of what-I-hope-was-lily, I trip over a flat of periwinkles I’d forgotten about entirely.
“I gotta plant those!” I thought for the jillionth time, and yet it was then, standing in a sweat drenched t-shirt, yoga pants and a pair of hopefully-machine-washable slippers, that the compulsion arose to indeed set the new plants into their permanent home, my flower bed.
Five minutes later: DONE!
New Plants: in the ground.
Share-able Plants: shoved unceremoniously to where I hope the front tire of the truck sits, so that in the morning, when I can actually see, I will pick up the tray of love I hope will find good homes and store it properly for safe travels to the library.
Shove: returned to its proper housing: the front door.
Pants and slippers: stuffed into the washing machine.
And I’m in the shower.
Two days later, plant swap was a major success. Love and abundance to all who arrived and left with packets of delight to plant and enjoy.
And I returned to my own flower bed, to water it, to fawn over it, and to inspect my new arrivals for signs of transplant shock.
Blink.
Blink.
I’m almost sure they were somewhere in this vicinity…
Okay.
So now it’s Monday, and I am planning another Plant Swap, because I need something to put in my beds. I have giant holes where once attractive flowers sat minding their own business. General signs of chaos abound — dirt amok, leaves littered, roots of questionable lineage strewn about — as though I’ve cut appendages from the body of my yard and left the dirt to ooze out.
And my brand new plants?
Well.
I’m sure they’re in there somewhere.
I just need for them to grow a bit — emerge from the soil graves into which I hurriedly threw them — and I’ll find out about my placement. I hope I chose good spots for each of the…oh, twenty or so…new souls to my loving garden.
And my house shoes?
Yeah…who knew they weren’t amenable to a good scrub in the Maytag…
